gun cabinet? Maybe they didn’t figure anyone would find the weapons. Who knows?”
I filled Forte in on my conversation with Moorly and my plan to track down the ghost paddle wheeler sometime soon. He provided a disapproving grunt and clicked off. Guess they don’t have ghosts in Los Angeles.
“Wait til you see what Tatiana sent me,” Sal finally said between sips of Dos Equis.
“You gonna show me now or do I have to wait?”
“Now’s good. Get a couple more beers. Mine’s almost empty.”
I did.
We crashed through the path to Sal’s house and came out of the woods onto his back lawn. Unlike mine, his is actually grass. Clipped, watered when needed, mowed in two directions and a blue-green blanket undulating with the topography. Trees surrounding the lawn are trimmed, nary a dead branch to be found.
“I hate this place,” I said with a bit of envy. “It belongs in Beverly Hills. It’s too neat.”
“So you’ve said. But here’s something you’ve never seen in Beverly Hills.”
He took me to the front yard. In the middle of an equally well kept spread of Kentucky Blue sat a cannon.
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s an FN Herstal medium remote weapon station,” Sal said.
“It’s a friggin’ anti-aircraft gun.”
“That, too.” He stood back, pulled from his Dos Equis and continued. “Totally remote controlled. And that’s an M3P machine gun my little Russian darling sent along. About 1,100 rounds per minute. .50 cal. The turret can angle from minus 42 degrees to plus 73 degrees.
“Cool, huh?”
I started to laugh. It was so outrageous, so over the top as a lawn ornament, so typical of Sal who always needed a new toy that it was the perfect gift from Tatiana.
“And how did she get it to you? You don’t ship that via UPS.”
“It came in a helicopter. And that’s all I’ll say about it.”
He walked to the M3P and put a meaty hand on its barrel. “Take a picture.” He tossed me his camera phone. Big grin and the sun reflecting off of the man’s twinkling blue eyes, the weapon the perfect backdrop if this were a Stallone movie, I clicked a couple of shots.
“Want to see it in action?” he said, like a kid with a new remote control airplane.
“You’re not gonna shoot it here, are you?”
“No, you dolt. I don’t have a backstop yet.”
He took back his smart phone, punched in http://www.fnherstal.com/index.php?id=658 and handed it back to me.
Indeed, the gun is remote controlled. I watched the video in absolute awe. The M3P rotated up, down, full circle, firing round-after-round of .50 caliber shells into an assortment of targets.
I clicked off the video and handed the phone back.
“You think Tatiana has another one of those kicking around?”
________________________________________________
Sal and I were sitting in the living room, a pizza box near empty on the foot stool, some lame game show as background on the television. We’d been dancing around the means of revenge for the killing of innocents during the Tree Man incident and possible government involvement.
“How close are we, Sal?”
“I’ve put out quiet feelers. Getting some feedback. We obviously touched a nerve. No one wants to talk and fewer have enough information to be of much use. It’s February. I’m looking for the end of August for launch. We have to be mighty careful, though.”
I nodded agreement. We were going to be dealing with folks who had the power. And all we had was Sal and me. Breaking the code of silence would take putting our respective morals in a deep, dark drawer.
A knock on the door gave me a start. It was 10:30 p.m. and usually I hear anything on the road driving up. Can actually sense a car or truck. Maybe it’s the hard pan sending vibrations through the ground. Whatever it is, rarely am I caught unaware.
I climbed from my chair and crossed the living room to the front door. Pulling it open, a short guy in a tan Harley Davidson dress shirt, black pants and loafers pushed past me, followed by a thick necked guy in a dark suit.
“Nick! Sal! God it’s good seeing you two guys!”
On his way through the living room, Artemus Thornson slid a piece of pizza from the box, coolly walked into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge and lifted a beer. Returning to the living room and falling onto the couch.
“How ya been!”
I looked at the thick necked guy.
“Sam, good seeing you.”
Thornson’s body guard smiled and nodded then sidled to the wall to keep an eye on the rest of us without being intrusive. The bulge of a holstered handgun – a big handgun – was as obvious today as it was when we had the “Shootout at Willow Weep” some months ago.
“Still packing the Desert Eagle, I see.”
“Yup.”
“You’re my man,” I said, returning to my lounge chair, lifting my feet to the coffee table and staring at Thornson. He had been ducking Sal and me and our inquiries about the Tree Man fall out. He saw my under current of fury at his intransigence.
He raised his hands in a defensive posture.
“Nick, I’m sorry about what happened. Really. The best I could do was warn you. The rest is way over my pay grade.”
The words were sincere and I wanted to believe him so I let it go for the time being.
“Good to see you, Artie.”
He winced at the reference, but smiled. He’d let me have that one. Tit for Tat.
“And you’re here, why?” Sal asked. He isn’t as forgiving as I am. He carries a grudge on his sleeve and never lets anyone forget it. Artemus had let him down big time and the loss of life that resulted almost made Sal come unglued.
Artemus knew he was in territory if not of the enemy, at least antagonists.
“You’ve been poking around Washington and Virginia, Sal. Need to know what you have in mind.”
Sal’s face clouded over, eyes going dark.
“None
